


from winter sun to summer snow

by objectlesson



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Come Eating, Dirty Talk, Dom Jaskier, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, M/M, Name-Calling, Praise Kink, Rimming, Verbal Humiliation, sub geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-23 06:51:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23274016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: He snacks away, putting squares of cheese onto crackers and eating them with little slices of apple, popping grape after grape past his lips while he hums gently, letting himselfsimply enjoythe sensation of Geralt eating him out.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 24
Kudos: 411





	from winter sun to summer snow

**Author's Note:**

> This is just some porn written for my dear friend who requested sloppy rimming. Basically Jaskier eats grapes while Geralt eats him out and it's very filthy but also sort of tender. Enjoy!

Jaskier truly _lingers_ at the buffet. 

After all, it’s extravagant, and it’s _free,_ and it’s all in his honor. Well, in _Geralt’s_ honor, he supposes, but Geralt wouldn’t _have_ any honor if it weren’t for him and his catchy tunes morphing infamy to honest-to-god shiny golden _fame,_ so. Jaskier decides he can take a fraction of the credit as royalties. 

_You owe this to me,_ he mouths across the cheese plate to his stony-faced wolf over dinner, and he ends up on the receiving end of a grimace every time, golden eyes _rolling_ as if Geralt thinks Jaskier is mad. He’s not bothered, though, because he knows the prickliness is only temporary. Only for show. Once he gets Geralt alone after this whole The-Monster-Is-Dead-and-Our-Town-Is-So-Very-Grateful party the village is throwing for them, things will go back to the way they are—the way they _should be._ Geralt on his knees, and so very, very grateful.

Geralt retires before Jaskier does, which is fine. Jaskier is eager to get back, but everyone wants to hear _Toss a Coin_ one more time, and he’s only helped himself to seconds, anyway. So he stays, and he plays. After the final chorus, he finishes to raucous applause, bowing and turning his head to receive a hail of kisses upon _both_ cheeks by every young lady in attendance. And perhaps several months ago, he would have stayed to pursue something in that particular direction. But not anymore. He sneaks his last plate up the stairs of the governor’s sprawling home they're staying in, sneaking past several tittering servants’ quarters, women leaning out of their door frames to bat their lashes at him. 

He blows kisses but otherwise hurries by, popping crackers into his mouth as he goes. They’re _good_ crackers, hearty and nutty and seedy, crackers with integrity, with _texture._ So as he busts into their room using his knee, he announces, “Witcher, you _must_ try the crackers,” through a full mouth. 

Geralt doesn’t look to be in a cracker mood, though. He’s spread out on one of the beds in nothing but a towel tossed carelessly over his cock, still flushed and dewy presumably from the bath, blinking slowly like he was perhaps just awoken. Jaskier raises his eyebrows and flops onto the opposite bed, stretching out to admire him. “Aww, look, you showered for me, what a secretly soft little pup you are,” he taunts, twisting one of the plump-looking red grapes from the bunch he stole and popping it into his mouth. It’s very juicy, and he lets a bit of fluid roll down his chin before pretending to wipe it up idly with a knuckle. “ Are you hungry? You left in such a hurry.” 

Geralt shifts wordlessly, rolling onto his side so that the towel falls away and onto the ground between their beds. Jaskier pretends not to notice and continues to munch away. 

“I could eat,” Geralt eventually says, stretching, popping his elbows. “Did you bring enough to share?” He says it in a tone that implies _I'm skeptical as you’re not known for your generosity,_ but the fact that he leaves the barb unspoken means he’s at least _open_ to playing tonight. Geralt will push Jaskier away if he does not want him, and he’s not doing that, not yet. He’s lying there, blinking, mouth a flat, unreadable line, and that’s as much of a green light as Jaskier ever gets, so he crunches another grape dramatically and answers, “Perhaps.” Then he reaches down and pops the button on his breeches, watching Geralt study the motion with obedient scrutiny. “I could spare some of these grapes. But first, if you _must_ eat, then you must _eat,”_ he explains, rolling onto his stomach and working his breeches over the globes of ass. 

Geralt’s gaze darkens predictably, and it makes Jaskier’s stomach swoop in delight. Once he figured Geralt _out,_ their dynamic became such a quick, orderly study. He spent a few tragic years pining for Geralt, wishing he would just _throw him against a tree already and fuck him to death,_ but after a few drunken attempts at seduction and a few coins slipped surreptitiously to some chatty prostitutes after Geralt left their quarters, Jaskier discovered that Geralt wasn’t _ever_ going to fuck him within an inch of his life. _Unless_ Jaskier bucked up and demanded it from him, perhaps with a boot pressed into the small of his back. 

And, well, Jaskier isn’t picky about those sorts of things. He thinks this look suits him, actually, because he is naturally very bossy and unashamed of asking for what he wants, so. If it works for Geralt, it works for him. And judging by the way they spend more nights together than not these days, he thinks it's working for Geralt just fine. 

“Are you—where do you want me?” Geralt asks then, rising unsteadily to his feet to make his way to Jaskier’s bed, cock already thickening deliciously, twitching in the thatch of silver pubic hair. Jaskier looks up at him wide-eyed and eats a cracker ever so slowly. 

“Well, certainly not _standing,_ how are you _ever_ going to get your tongue up my ass without first getting on your knees? Dumb little boy,” he adds then, even though Geralt is easily eighty years his senior, if he’s done the math right. Their _real_ ages don’t matter, though, because Geralt likes being called things he’s not: degrading things, _small_ things, low and vulgar things. It’s brilliant, really, because Jaskier is a wordsmith _and_ superb when it comes to crafting insults. “Come on,” he orders, pointing to the floor as he chews a grape, which pops satisfyingly between his teeth. “This is what you’re _really_ hungry for, isn’t it? My hole?” 

Geralt makes a sound in his throat, a low, distant rumble like thunder approaching. It makes Jaskier shiver, but he disguises it by waving his hips in the air, arching his back. “It’s not going to lick itself, is it?” he says, letting his voice get sharp, demanding. That always does Geralt in. 

Sure enough, he’s pitching forward, breath hot on Jaskier’s cheeks before he’s thumbing them apart, spitting a thick froth right onto his twitching rim. Jaskier feels it land and bites his hiss back by shoving something into his mouth. This time it’s a strawberry, and it’s somewhat tart, but the sensation of Geralt’s tongue swirling right over his core all hot and strong and slick sweetens it a bit. “Fuck, yes, there you go,” he grits out, bucking into the pressure. “There’s where you’re supposed to be, isn’t it? Naked on the floor licking my ass while I eat _my_ dinner.” 

“Yes,” Geralt murmurs, speaking for the first time since he lowered himself to his knees. And, _oh,_ Jaskier _loves_ the way his voice gets somehow even _lower and thicker_ when he’s like this, eyes all pupil, mouth a drooling mess. Jaskier has never enjoyed being in charge so much, probably because he’s never met someone so very _eager_ to give up their control. Geralt positively, _palpably,_ craves it, and that makes this sort of thing so much easier. He snacks away, putting squares of cheese onto crackers and eating them with little slices of apple, popping grape after grape past his lips while he hums gently, letting himself _simply enjoy_ the sensation of Geralt eating him out. 

And Geralt’s so _sloppy_ about it, so messy, so uncouth about literally every single fucking thing he _does_. Jaskier can feel the wetness running down his crack to his balls, the humidity building as Geralt pries him apart and licks in wide, graceless swaths like he simply enjoys the taste, like he can’t get enough. Because Jaskier’s multitasking while he’s stretched out on his bed, it’s easier to relax, and within a minute or so, he loosens up enough that Geralt can actually fuck him _open_ with his tongue, pushing past the ring of muscle and licking inside of him, the feel of it so invasive and delicious that Jaskier’s eyes flutter closed in bliss. “Goodness, Witcher, you really are so terribly thorough at that.” 

“Don’t call me Witcher, not right now,” Geralt pleads as he pulls away, panting. Jaskier looks over his shoulder at him, breath catching at the way his cheeks are flushed, his lips swollen, his chin wet with spit. “Call me anything else. But not Witcher. And not my name.” 

“You’re really _not_ in a position where you can demand things, you silly, stupid little pup,” Jaskier jeers, complying even as he taunts him. He arches his hips, forces his hand between himself and the mattress so that he can take his cock in hand and stroke himself to finish. “Go on, put that pretty mouth to use again. I want to come with your tongue inside me.” 

Geralt chokes on a broken sound, reaching down and palming his own cock briefly, reflexively, before he lets go, golden gaze skittering up Jaskier’s body again. “May I come, too?” he asks. 

“Fine, yes, if you clean the mess up after the fact,” Jaskier allows, making a loose gesture with his wrist before plucking another strawberry off his plate and pretending to examine it. “With your mouth, since you're so hungry. Eat your own come up off the carpet...but only after you make _me_ come and eat that up, too.” 

“God, _yes_ , anything,” Geralt gasps, mouth open and hot on Jaskier’s thigh, his ass cheek, then right where it needs to be, spread out over his hole. He sucks, then licks, then prods at him, spearing him apart and, _fuck,_ Jaskier very nearly chokes on his food. 

“ _Oh,”_ he moans, tugging on his cock as he ruts into the bed, backing himself up against Geralt’s stubble-rough face. “ _God ,_ you’re so good, such a perfect, slutty, ass-licking little slave boy, aren’t you?” he babbles, desperate to come, to see it glistening on the sheets before Geralt dutifully licks it up. 

It’s this image alone that pushes him over the edge, leaves him gasping, trembling, spilling over his fist as Geralt groans right against his madly spasming hole. 

As soon as he’s finished Jaskier bats him away, rolls over, and sits up, still clutching a cluster of grapes in one hand, leaving the other free to make a fist in Geralt’s tied-back hair. He yanks him closer, drags his face to the bed, and mashes it into his come, breathless as he watches Geralt’s eyelids flicker, his lips part to pant, the pink, wet flash of his tongue lave over the sheets messily. “Good boy,” he says lightly, eating a grape as he loosens his grip and pets Geralt’s fly-away silver hairs before tucking them behind his ear. Then he thumbs the spit off the cut of his jaw as he tries to catch his breath. It’s hard, honestly, when such a big, beautiful man is so debauched before him: unstrung, undone, _pathetic._ It makes his heart clench, to know that he can unstring someone as vast and lovely and _wonderfully special_ as Geralt. That Geralt _trusts_ him enough to weaken and crack in front of him. It’s an honor, really. Not that Jaskier would ever _tell_ him so. “Eat it up, every drop,” he demands, shoving Geralt’s face into the sheets for a moment before releasing him again, drinking in the sight of his shame-red cheeks, the come glistening on his lips before he licks it off, fist a blur on his own cock before he winces and cries out, spilling over his fingers in a lewd torrent. 

Geralt always comes _so much_ that it makes Jaskier dizzy. He’s not sure if it’s a witcher-thing specifically, or if he’s just very lucky, but regardless, he loves it. Loves to demand Geralt to come all over his face and rub it in, or that he collect the puddle with his fingers and shove it back inside Jaskier’s body where it belongs, or, in this case, that he bend down like an animal and clean it all up with his own tongue. There’s just so many _creative_ things to do with come, and Geralt _inspires_ him. “God, look at that filthy mess you made on the floor,” he tuts, peering over the edge of the bed and taking a bite from the last strawberry. “I’ll feed you the other half of this once that floor is shining clean. And _then_ you can have these,” he purrs, pulling the now empty plate over to his lap, showing Geralt the meager bits and crumbs he’s left him. “Are you grateful?” he asks, cocking his head. 

And Geralt groans, licks his lips, and grabs the back of Jaskier’s head to drag him down into a filthy, searing kiss that tastes spicy and salty with his own ass and come. It’s very good, if Jaskier says so himself (and he does), so he lets Geralt kiss him some more and decides that this probably constitutes as an enthusiastic _yes._


End file.
